


And although that we are both single and free, we take great delight in our own company

by Gwerfel



Series: Tozer & Armitage [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, bisexual tozer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: That Tozer deigns to pass the time of day with Tommy is something which causes him constant astonishment - let alone the other mischief they have lately begun to share in; a portion of which Armitage knows is coming his way, judging by the loose swagger of Tozer's gait as he enters the room....Tommy and Sol find a bit of free time on Trafalgar Day.
Relationships: Thomas Armitage/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Series: Tozer & Armitage [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898272
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	And although that we are both single and free, we take great delight in our own company

**Author's Note:**

> Why not, eh? Why bloody not. Tommy and Solly 4eva.
> 
> Thank you thank you to Kt_fairy for EVERYTHING but particularly reviewing and encouraging and your bottomless boat knowledge <3

“I  do ~~n’t care~~ ~~what~~ \--- ~~now~~ ~~ you’ve ~~ \---  ~~got it~~ wrong -  it was  _ kismet _ !”

“Pah!” Says Hornby, “nonsense.”

“It means  _ fate _ ,  from ~~the~~ \--  ~~ in ~~ \--" 

Helpman keeps turning his head as he speaks so Armitage cannot quite catch every word, though he well comprehends the indignant tone, "--- it was--  ~~ and ~~ \---  ~~my own~~ uncle --- that and  _ he _ was a mate at Trafalgar.” Helpman insists.

“On  _ Victory _ too, was he?” Hornby guffaws, much louder, "trying to kip in the orlop while the Admiral lay dying?" 

The bellow of laughter which bursts out of Mr Blanky is made deafening by the way it rings off the close and brittle walls of the gunroom, so that even Armitage winces. Mr Helpman is spitting pins, he folds his arms across his chest and scowls, loosening only when Blanky catches Armitage's eye through the low hanging smoke and nods at Helpman's glass. 

Tommy steps forward quickly to fill it, pouring the rum carefully and slowly, then wiping the rim of the bottle with his napkin to stop it dripping. He moves back against the wall and looks forward. Helpman drinks, half of it goes down his chin.

" _ Kismet _ ," Thompson grunts with some disdain into his own cup, "rubbish."

"Why would Admiral Lord Nelson waste his last words speaking anything but English, eh?" 

"Aye," says Mr Lane.

"More to the point, why would he ask for a kiss off Hardy? I met the git, 'e was an ugly beggar."

Another smattering of laughter at that.

"Here  now ," Mr MacBean says sternly, " ~~they~~ ~~ were ~~ \---- ~~ the very ~~ \--- .  ~~ And I say ~~ \---"

It isn’t worth Armitage straining to hear MacBean's verdict on the matter, for he is drunk and mumbling more than usual. Armitage doubts the other officers gathered in the gunroom can follow him either, though they all nod along until he has finished. 

"Aye," they all chorus, like an 'amen', and down their glasses, then one by one raise them to be filled.

Armitage steps forward again, now edging his way around the table to pour for each man. He only hears snatches of chatter after that, as they fall to conversing in groups of two or three, the individual voices growing indistinct, lost in a clangorous din.

It is Trafalgar day, and before supper the order was given to splice the mainbrace and raise a glass to Nelson. The men have had their extra tots, they have toasted the captain, the queen and the company; they have ranted and roared, like true British sailors, and Tommy Armitage has been kept in the gunroom two hours later than is usual on a Tuesday evening. Stewards may be exempt from watch, but their duties remove them from almost every kind of leisure available to ordinary sailors. They wait patiently on other men's fun, and once celebrations are over they tidy the enjoyment away, then return quietly to their cabins, preferably unnoticed.

Armitage has no complaints; he welcomes the distraction. Winter is drawing in already, and the reality of the expedition has finally dawned upon him. The ships are anchored by the shores of Beechey Island, where they will likely remain until the spring. The sea will freeze over any day now, according to the men who know about such matters; it has already begun, and one morning they will wake to find themselves locked in. 

The anticipation Tommy feels for this moment makes him almost sick; qualmish and unsettled all over. At night he lies fidgeting and fretting in his berth, wishing that it would happen all at once, or not at all, jumping at every tilt and roll of the ship. 

He has never had much of an imagination; he has seen ponds freeze over back home, but cannot reconcile that tranquil picture with the vast ocean that surrounds them now. 

There is coal to keep them warm and provisions to keep them fed for seven years, if needs be, but Tommy hadn’t banked on seven years in a place like this; a place which feels like nowhere at all. There is no sound but that which the ships make, the air above deck is so clean and sharp it burns the tender skin inside his nostrils, and now even the daylight is seeping away. Day after day grows shorter, blacker, and soon he will not believe that anything at all exists beyond the deck of  _ Terror _ .

The officers of the gunroom finish their cups and tamp down their pipes and decide it is time at last to retire. Armitage breathes a sigh of relief, his eyes itching and his throat sore from the tobacco smoke. He stands straight-backed until they have all gone, then stretches his arms out until the joints click, setting down the empty bottle of rum and tossing his napkin onto the table, yawning.

He wonders whether Gibson and Genge are still in the wardroom, or whether they were excused for the celebrations. There won’t be any warm water until the morning, he expects, so the glasses will have to wait until then to be rinsed. He clears them away anyway, piling them up on his tray to tidy the room for the night.

Mr MacBean is careless with his tobacco. Unlike the other masters and mates he favours paper cigarettes over the traditional sailor's pipe, and makes a mess of it all over the gunroom table. Tommy sweeps the pile neatly into his handkerchief and saves it in his pocket. Nothing wrong with taking his little perks where he can; the dregs from a teapot to stew again, trimmed pork fat, soap shavings.

There’s some rum leftover too - almost a finger left in Mr Thomas’s glass and a few trickles still sitting in some of the others. Armitage begins to collect that up next, tipping it all into one glass. It isn’t thieving; they expect it, Genge has assured him that the officers would do the same, if their roles were reversed.

He’s often alone in the gunroom - Tommy thinks he must find himself alone more regularly than most men on the ship, barring perhaps the captain. With the room empty he realises how quiet  _ Terror  _ has become, all of the men either sleeping or on duty for first watch. 

He has almost finished his work when the door draws slowly open, and there in the threshold appears Sergeant Tozer, peering around like a boy afraid to be caught out of bed.

"All right, Tommy?" He whispers. He is shining like a lantern in his red coat and his eyes gleam with pleasant inebriation. 

"Evening, Sergeant Tozer."

“Can I come in?”

“‘course you can,” Armitage feels a brightness ignite low in his chest, his heartbeat picking up and throbbing in his dumb ear like a signal drum.

Tozer’s smile turns his whole face merry and twinkling as he carefully pulls the door closed behind himself. 

The sergeant has become a good pal these past months - Tommy has never liked any man better. He has had mates on voyages before, but none with such a measure of him as Tozer has. He is so handsome, full of strength and energy, as steady and sure as a marine sergeant ought to be. That Tozer deigns to pass the time of day with Tommy is something which causes him constant astonishment - let alone the other mischief they have lately begun to share in; a portion of which Armitage knows is coming his way, judging by the loose swagger of Tozer's gait as he enters the room.

"All bedded down, are they?" The marine looks about himself.

"Aye, I’m just clearing away."

Tozer looks down at the tray Armitage has piled up, and eyes the glass set aside into which he has poured all of the pilfered rum. He raises his eyebrows, his lips turn down in a comically inquisitive expression. As steadfast and solemn as Tozer always is about his duties, at leisure he does not shy away from clownishness. “What’s this then, Mr Armitage?” He asks, his voice low and full of glee, “skimming a little something off the top?”

“It’s only what they left - here,” Armitage raises it at once and holds it out to Solomon. “We’ll share it.”

“Don’t have to,” Tozer licks his lips.

“Want to,” Tommy says, and holds it out again, a loving cup. He would share anything with Solomon, he has never had such a true friend before.

Tozer needs no further encouragement, and knocks back a mouthful. Like all men who have lived long years at sea the sergeant understands the terms of sharing spoils and has a good eye for measurement; Tommy is certain that when the cup is returned it is with exactly half the quantity remaining. He takes it and finishes it in one go. It slides down his throat like golden fire, spreading a satisfied warmth which rouses his body. Tozer watches him, his round eyes soft in the lamplight.

"Haven't you the middle watch?" Tommy asks, wiping his lips self-consciously. 

"Half an hour yet."

"Letting you go up pissed?"

"I'm better off than Hedges, tell yer."

He sways slightly on his feet, perhaps for effect. Tommy grins.

“Well then?” Tozer asks, a quick glance up and down and a hand on Tommy’s sleeve.

“Here?” Armitage asks, looking at the closed door.

“Nowhere else, is there?”

“All right, yeah,” Armitage sets down the cup on the polished wood table, “put out that lamp, though," he nods at the bracket on the wall behind them. 

Tozer acts quickly, reaching over Tommy’s shoulder to turn down the wick and douse the flame as Tommy leans forward to lower the light sitting on the table. He doesn’t turn it down all the way, just enough to avoid rousing attention. The cabin fills up with blackness, only the faintest yellow glow to light their silhouettes, setting ablaze the red of Tozer’s coat and the gold of his buttons.

Tommy casts a final look at the door. Weak fingers of light from the passageway outside slip beneath the cracks. No one will notice them if they pass, no one will think anyone is inside.

Eyes adjusting to the gloom he watches Tozer lean against the edge of the table, unbuttoning his jacket and then his trousers, pulling both open and looking back up at Tommy.

“Come here,” he whispers, taking his hands and placing them inside his open coat, where the heat of his skin rises through his damp shirt. Tommy splays his fingers across Tozer’s chest and ribs, drawn in by the open honest warmth of him. The beating drums pound harder, and his breeches grow tight with wanting. 

Solomon's lips are hot, too, his mouth wet and searching. He slides his tongue between Tommy's teeth and grins, his whiskers scratching Tommy's chin.

Tommy kisses him eagerly back, pressing into him, feeling every line of Tozer's sturdy body through his coat. Leaning further back against the table edge, Solomon shifts his legs apart so that Armitage can fit himself between them, his fingers creeping between the buttons on Tozer’s shirt, searching for bare skin. Solomon holds him fast at the waist as he kisses him, then reaches around to grasp Armitage's backside with both hands, pressing them closer, so that their rigid cocks meet through their trousers. Armitage shudders, rocking his hips between Tozer’s squeezing thighs.

Since their first embrace almost a month ago now, they have found occasion to share together perhaps three or four times, and each time Solomon is more ardent than the last. 

He moves his hand now, up to Tommy’s waistband and then around to flick open the buttons at the front. He sometimes snaps the threads clean off, his hands are large and they seldom have any time for delicacy - Armitage thanks his lucky stars that no one will question a steward who is forever sewing buttons. Tonight, however, Solomon proves dextrous enough, despite the urgent haze of drink, and Tommy’s trousers are unfastened without casualty. Solomon thrusts his hand inside and draws him out, gripping with rough fingers and pressing firmly against Tommy’s length with the heel of his hand.

His other hand now at Tommy’s neck, fingers curling under his hair, pulling him in further still, “come closer,” he murmurs against Tommy’s lips.

Tommy doesn’t see how he can get much closer, his hands are already trapped between their bodies, able only to grasp and stroke at Solomon’s shirt and braces, with no room to maneuver so that he may return the favour - they do it that way, most of the time; both rutting into each others fists until they come off together, panting and temples dripping, biting down on the other’s shoulder. Still, Solomon insists, and so Tommy allows himself to be guided and directed, Solomon tugging at his prick all the while, bringing him perilously close to concluding the entire affair before they’ve properly begun. 

“Sol…” Tommy squirms anxiously, “I’ll spend…”

Solomon lets go at once, withdrawing his hand and pulling away. Tommy could punch him; that wasn’t what he meant at all. Sol hears his grunt of frustration and laughs, low silent rumbles in his chest which Tommy can feel against the pads of his fingertips.

“Easy, here,” Solomon whispers, moving again to free his own flushed prick from his underclothes. He raises his palm to his mouth and spits quickly, before lowering it again and pulling Tommy close once more. 

Tommy almost yells with pleasure when Solomon takes both their cocks in his hand and squeezes them together, stroking slowly up and down. He has never felt anything like it, the solid weight of Tozer’s hard prick, skin hot and slick rubbing up against his own, they both stifle a groan into the wool of each other’s coats and begin to move in a steady driving rhythm, Sol’s hand keeping pace, squeezing and twisting and coaxing them both towards rapture.

“Sol,” Tommy moans again, not sure what he’s asking.

“Like that?”

Tommy nods against his shoulder, rising up onto his toes to thrust into Solomon’s grip, their cockheads sliding against each other, growing slicker still. Tozer’s breathing quickens, he begins to murmur feverishly with each stroke, “I’d like to lay you out,” he whispers into Tommy’s right ear, “like to do more than frig you.”

“Mm,” Tommy whimpers and clenches his teeth; all he can do is nod again, fingers scrabbling at Solomon’s chest as he thrusts up, the muscles in his belly twitching convulsively, his thighs burning with the desire for release. 

Solomon strokes his broad hand upwards once more, then down, running his thumb over Tommy’s sensitive prickhead and tipping him over into bliss. Tommy sucks in a breath, jerking forward in Solomon’s arms and spending all in one fierce spurt.

Solomon groans and rubs faster, burying his face in Tommy’s neck and sucking at the tender skin there as he brings himself off with a grunt and a sigh.

Their movements slow as their bodies settle, and Tommy pushes away to catch his breath. Solomon releases him, still panting. In the low light Tozer’s lips are redder than his coat from kissing, and the tips of his golden curls are dark with sweat. He snatches Tommy’s napkin from the table and wipes his hand with it, then dabs at his shirt before buttoning up.

“Did you mean what you said?” Tommy asks, hoarsely, as he buttons his trousers, “just then?”

Tozer looks up and gives him a roguish grin, “I always mean what I say.”

Tommy feels himself flush again from head to toe, and Tozer laughs under his breath, ruffling his hair. “I’d best be off, Tommy - see you tomorrow.”

“Aye, goodnight, Sol.”

He turns up the lamp again once Solomon is out of the room, and smooths down his coat with trembling hands, flipping the napkin over his arm and lifting the tray.

In the passage outside there is a sound of boot steps, which Tommy doesn’t hear until they are very close.

“Good evening, Sergeant!” Mr Blanky roars, loud enough to wake those sleeping forward. Armitage freezes completely still, the back of his neck prickling with terror.

“Evening, Mr Blanky,” comes Tozer’s reply.

“On duty, are ye?”

“Just on my way up, sir,”

“Rather you than me.”

“Aye, sir.” Tozer retreats and Tommy breathes a sigh of relief.

The gunroom door slides open again and Mr Blanky appears, glassy eyed with rum, “still up, Mr Armitage?”

“Just taking these cups to the galley, Mr Blanky sir,” Tommy ducks his head, lowering his gaze.

“You’re looking a bit red, lad, been tapping the Admiral?” Blanky nods at the empty tumblers.

Armitage doesn’t answer, looking down again, mortified. Being caught drinking is nothing compared to what he might have been caught for, but he’d still rather not draw attention to himself. 

Blanky laughs roughly, “have a spell up on deck while it’s quiet and you’ll be right. Did I leave my pipe in here?”

“No, Mr Blanky,” Armitage says, “I have not seen it.”

“Bugger it,” Blanky shakes his head, then leaves, muttering loudly all the way back to his cabin.

* * *

He does go up on deck, as Blanky suggested. He knows he will not get any sleep for hours, not while his heart is thrashing like a fish on a line. He passes Tom Hartnell and Will Strong on his way up, both looking worse for wear and less alert than they probably ought to. 

The deck is quiet and a fog has rolled in, but the ship is still moving, rocking very gently in the frigid bay, not locked in yet. Any day now, he thinks, but not tonight. The fragments of ice glow dazzlingly white against the black water, and he can just make out the snowy shore of Beechey Island. Breathing in the cold fresh air, feeling the sweat freeze and crackle at his temples, Tommy leans over the gunwale and pulls out his little stash of tobacco and begins to roll a cigarette. 

“Oi,” Tozer approaches from his left, so he doesn’t hear him coming, and bumps him deliberately with his shoulder. “Where should you be, Mr Armitage?” He asks, half sober and half in jest.

“Nowhere,” Tommy replies, honestly. “I’ve nowhere I’m needed. Mr Blanky said I should come up for the air.”

He completes his cigarette and lights it. “I’ll go back down after this.”

“Gi’z a puff,” Tozer bumps him again, and Armitage obliges. It is a pleasure to share with a friend, after all. 

“Sol?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you reckon Nelson’s last words really were?”

“I dunno,” Tozer snorts, handing back the cigarette, “reckon it was probably too loud to catch ‘em anyway.”

“Yeah,” he inhales deeply, then lets it all out in one go, so that the smoke billows grey and ghostly into the black Arctic air, thicker than the fog surrounding the ship. He half expects it to freeze and shatter. 

“Sergeant Tozer, sir?” Private Wilkes’ reedy voice calls out from the starboard side. Tozer and Armitage both turn to look, squinting in the dark. They can’t see him from where they are on account of the fog. Tozer sighs quietly and pushes off the gunwale.

“Goodnight, Sergeant,” Armitage says, offering his arm a squeeze and making to leave.

Solomon turns to him, catching the crook of his elbow, his eyes merry again, “oi.” He tugs him close once more, “kiss me, Tommy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
